Varanasi // Josh Kiszka

Tintagel

Josh was sitting on the old steps leading down towards the sea. The ruins of Tintagel at sunset behind him. You looked back and saw his frame perched there, his face watching the sun dip below the horizon.

"Are you coming?" You asked, windswept and devil-may-care.

"Sit with me here for a while." He replied, reaching out to bring you to the step beneath him.

Tintagel castle sat at the end of the earth. Where craggy rocks encroached on white sea foam, waves forever altering the coast line. You'd never seen anything quite like it before and somehow it had managed to entrance Josh.

You liked to watch him when he was like that. When he was lost in thought and taking in the beauty of a place. You knew his heart and his mind were absorbing the energy and leaving a piece of himself behind, as he always did.

"I'm really glad you brought me here." You said, leaning in to him, feeling the warmth of his body against your back.

"I know it's not quite what you're used to." He teased a little, bringing his cheek to rest on your crown.

"No." You replied, turning your face to see the sun set in his eyes. "It's perfect, it couldn't be more perfect."

He broke away from the view to look down at you. The wind pulling your hair out from underneath the scarf you'd wrapped around to keep it in place. He caught a curl between his fingers and tucked it back beneath the folds.

"It's crazy to think this place is only a few hours away from London." He mused, "It feels as if we've stepped into another world."

It was all you wanted. All you craved. To step into a world where you didn't have to go home. You could feel the clock ticking and knew that Josh was avoiding it, talking about anything that didn't involve the inevitable.

"We've come a long way." You agreed, "In more ways than one."

He smiled ruefully and leant down to place a kiss at the corner of your mouth. Soft and gentle, such as he was. You let him cast his hands down your goose fleshed arms and he took note of the raised skin there.

"You're cold." He pointed out, shedding himself of his jacket to place around your shoulders. "Come on, let's get back inside before you freeze to death."

You didn't mind it. Not here, anyway. Where you felt as if you'd stepped back in time and didn't have to worry about what was to come. Like you'd been written by Tolkien himself. It wasn't like London rain or the dreary concrete jungle.

The cottage Josh had hastily booked on air b&b was a short drive away from the castle, nestled in a sleepy little village that had billowing chimneys and thatched roofs. Ivy and wisteria coiling around the windows and doors, with little picket fences around beautifully curated gardens that reminded you of Varanasi.

The garden gate at the foot of the little cobbled street was painted yellow, and squeaked a little as you opened it. A feature which Josh took great delight in, making a fuss of the 'mysterious singing gate of Tintagel'.

"I'd swear it was possessed." He continued, throwing his jacket on the hook by the little front door. "Perhaps even bewitched by the spirit of an old bard or something."

He was in storyteller mode. Kicking his shoes off and going straight for the open fire in the lounge. You settled on the couch to watch him build it, freely regaling you with an intrusive thought about a curse placed on an inconspicuous little yellow gate.

And you felt yourself enamoured by him. His quirky little mannerisms and his prophetic voice. Placing kindling at the bottom before getting side tracked a while, stuffing newspaper in the crevices of the freshly chopped wood as he continued to unfold a ridiculous tale that made sense only to him.